


Oracle

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, PWP, Porn Battle IX, volume 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn’t anything Sylar wouldn’t do for answers and peace of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oracle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle IX but it was not finished in time for that round. Prompts considered were _defenses, resist, useful_. Takes place between 4x17 "The Wall" and 4x18 "Brave New World." Spoilers for the end of season 4. Thanks goes to [](http://missbreese.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://missbreese.livejournal.com/)**missbreese** who looked it over for me and proclaimed it good. All remaining mistakes are my own, heh.

There wasn’t anything Sylar wouldn’t do for answers and peace of mind.

He was still on a bumpy road of self-rediscovery, going down a path that had led him to a college campus where, of all people, he sought the counsel of the former cheerleader who was trying—and failing—to live a normal life of her own. The next leg of his journey had taken him to Parkman’s home where he ended up in near-seclusion inside his own head for several years. It’s no wonder that Sylar was so disoriented that he found himself back at the Sullivan Carnival, welcomed in open arms by Samuel.

Claire’s theory of Sylar becoming human again as the only way to have the ability to make a human connection—devolution of sorts—sounded probable, if not impossible, but the uncertainty ate away at him. His connections had been forged in patricide and bloodlust; things that weren’t easily forgotten, let alone forgiven, as Peter often reminded him. But still, even if the possibility was remote, Sylar needed to know for sure whether or not it was an avenue he should pursue. That’s why he was sitting there in the privacy of Samuel’s trailer, the chill of the desert night sending goose bumps up his arms, watching him stir the jar of viscous ink.

By the third hypnotic rotation of the stick, Samuel carefully drew the tip from the mixture and it was as if the sense of déjà vu had become inverted. Sylar saw a wrench melting, disappearing from Samuel’s hand into the jar—and he leaned forward in the chair, phantom movement of a car lurching away at top speed, his stomach churning at pounding noise inside his head, and barely noticing faint scent of vomit in his nostrils. Sylar averted his gaze and closed his eyes. It was a high price and didn’t know if the power had the same value and appeal to him anymore.

When Samuel cleared his throat Sylar looked up and reclined in his seat, trying to quell his perpetual need to shake the sand from the sleeves of his coat because Samuel’s virulent sandstorm was long gone. And though the memories still felt distant, floating like sheets loose-leaf paper in his mind—his could vaguely recall the last time he’d been powerless and “human.” The gritty taste of sand was in his mouth and stinging his eyes the as he nearly died of heat stroke in Mexico, only to be picked up by an unassuming angel and her brother. There he’d been without abilities and still… he hurt people, manipulated the young woman. Killed so he could feel the prick of a needle and his body would undergo changes so he’d become faster, stronger, _better_ than everyone. But since then he’d seen what befell his own father, witnessed vindictiveness and evil in Angela Petrelli that was beyond his imagination. Seen the government hunt down people like him. Circumstances were different now.

Samuel tapped the rim of the jar with the stick and Sylar got up take his coat off, pulling the shirt up and over. He sat down, folded his arms over the back of the chair and eyed Samuel’s wary approach. He grabbed Samuel’s wrist before he had the chance to jab him with the stick but didn’t bother fighting and stared Sylar down, unafraid of the man Sylar was or used to be—or could be again.

Sylar eyed the chipped fingernail polish as he tried to sort through his reading with Lydia’s gift. It was an imperfect skill, but the animosity, deep-seeded need for action and revenge wasn’t hard to discern. He was entirely deluded in his earnestness he had in the name of his _family_.

Sylar mused upon the vague facts before him and released Samuel’s wrist. They might be powerful emotions but they were fallacies, bitter ones that Sylar had come to know all too well. It’d make no difference telling Samuel that he was headed for a dead end, especially when things were still murky and Sylar couldn’t get the clearest look at the possibilities lingering beneath the surface. It made him wish for a paintbrush and canvas.

Sylar looked from Samuel’s forearm to his face, at the eyeliner, frayed clothing and hair tousled to cover up how it’s thinned with age. It was a built-in bohemian guise for a man who was just as naked and pissed off underneath as anyone Sylar had met. Samuel gestured with the ink-stained stick, waiting, and Sylar briefly inclined his head. Unlike last time, Samuel pressed the tip softly to his chest and it took the warmth of the ink spreading and circling his torso for Sylar to realize that Samuel didn’t even break the skin. The dark ink traveled in and out of his eye line and Samuel stepped behind him, looking at his back while Sylar struggled to look over his shoulder.

Samuel’s lips quirked upward in puzzlement and followed Sylar’s gaze back to his abdomen, watching the ink crawl beneath the denim waistline. Flushed, he avoided Samuel’s eyes and fumbled at his belt loops. He felt ink part into two separate shapes and slide down his thighs, a palpable warmth that Sylar traced with his fingers as he sat back down. He pulled his shoes and socks off and stared at the identical markings resting on top of his feet.

“Godsend,” Samuel murmured, dropping to his haunches and tugging the cuffs of the jeans upward for a better look. Samuel’s other hand rested precariously on Sylar’s knee, noticeable, but quite accidental if he was to trust his newfound ability.

Sylar scratched at the tattoo on his left foot with a fingernail. _Godsend_ , ostensibly synonymous with power.

“You have a thousand more miles to walk in these shoes,” Samuel said, hand hovering above the tattoos like he wanted to trace them.

“Is that so?” Sylar asked.

“Yes,” Samuel hissed. He wore the enthusiastic glint in his eye that he had when speaking to Sylar when he was disembodied. That was one of the more potent memories—his blank slate self had been tinged with Nathan Petrelli’s memories and subsequently remembered that look with a bit more fear than Sylar currently possessed.

Sylar pushed the cuffs back down and reached for the socks. The road was definitely forked, all he had to do was pick a direction but he didn’t have a clue, which would be the better one. Samuel looked him with some surprise at his briskness and Sylar froze, overwhelmed by the sense of pride and admiration Samuel was giving off. He tilted his head and finished lacing his shoes before he placed his hands on his knees.

“Do you want to know what I learned how to do?” Sylar asked. In his head, it sounded icier. He remembered how he used to calibrate his intonation to instill fear, but instead he thought he sounded more like the enthusiastic man who wanted to impress to Chandra Suresh.

“What’s that?” Samuel asked.

Sylar slowly turned his arm, showing Samuel the tattoo of Claire. He kneaded the image with his thumb in gentle circles until her face began to break up, muddied, until it was a solid blob under his skin. Sylar massaged his forearm, herding the ink down to his fingertip and he took the stick from Samuel and dug the tip under his nail until the ink was entirely on the stick. Sylar quickly grabbed Samuel’s wrist, and held it tight. There was a flicker of alarm in Samuel’s face. He might not be able to sound formidable or look serious, but action spoke much louder than words.

Samuel’s eyes widened, lips forming a grin and Sylar smirked in return. He laid the stick across his knee and shifted, bracing himself on the chair as he projected enough air beneath the soil to produce a tremor that caused the trailer shake and several cabinet doors swung open as a result.

Samuel laughed, clasping Sylar’s forearm. “That’s truly remarkable,” he said. “I’ve always said that you are the most powerful man I’ve ever met.” Sylar’s vision did not shake; there was no lie in the words. Samuel’s charisma was something to admire, but his skills of manipulation were not on par with the Petrelli’s or even Noah Bennet. Now that he was getting the unfiltered look at Samuel, it wasn’t difficult to see that he wasn’t that impressive of liar or manipulator. He hardly measured up to the Petrelli’s or even Noah Bennet, but he held a kind of intrigue that puzzled him.

“People have thought that they could use me, even when I show them they’re wrong. If you knew so much about me, why take the chance of trying to use me when you know what I can do?” Sylar asked.

“I need reliable people,” Samuel said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie, not in his eyes. Sylar laughed.

“I’m not sure reliable is the best word to describe me.” He tilted his head, Samuel’s wrist still locked in his grip. “Why shouldn’t I kill you for trying to use me?” he asked.

“I was only trying to help—help you, help me to help my family. You should trust me,” Samuel said, wrist still locked in Sylar’s grip.

 _“Why?”_ Sylar asked, tightening his grip. There was something else about why he was important to Samuel, why they all were, but he couldn’t quite tell Samuel was keeping from him, no matter how much Sylar tried to look.

Samuel leaned over, his voice dropping. “Because any way we bend, fold or are ripped to shreds by the people we care about, we’re cut from the same cloth,” Samuel said, his attention wandering from Sylar’s eyes to the ink-stained stick in his hand. “I could use your help right now,” Samuel added.

Sylar let go and reclined into his chair. The words hit too close to home.

“I need to know where I go from here. So many have betrayed me, betrayed my family,” he said, unbuttoning his coat and taking off his shirt. Sylar stood, raised the stick and jabbed Samuel’s collarbone. He enjoyed the flinch of pain and they both watched the looping ink slide up and down his arms and spring into the form of a large tree right over his heart. Samuel retreated further into the trailer and Sylar put his own shirt back on as Samuel stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the tattoo, tree’s outstretched branches that were empty of it’s leaves.

“Change,” Samuel said, murmuring to himself. He frowned deeply when he caught Sylar approaching the trailer door.

“Wait. Tell me what you see,” Samuel said, his plea wrapped inside a command, and moved to prevent him from leaving. Sylar tried to hide his amusement.

“That’s why you always had Lydia around to help you with your…interpretations,” he said, leaning in precariously and Samuel narrowed his eyes.

Sylar tilted his head and eased out of Samuel’s personal space, feigning indifference. He grabbed his coat and pushed the door open. He a half dozen steps away from the trailer when Samuel called to him. Sylar turned around and Samuel was leaning against the doorframe.

“Please stay,” Samuel said.

"And if I don’t, you’ll do what? Kick some more dust in my face?” Sylar asked, smug.

“You have to tell me more,” Samuel said and came down the steps.

“You’re well aware that there’s less talking involved,” Sylar said. Lydia’s sensual kisses—the way her hands roamed his body—were some of the most vivid memories he had these days.

Samuel’s face broke into a sly grin and he chuckled and headed back into the trailer, leaving the door open as an invitation. Sylar stared into the window, watching the specter of Samuel’s form wander through the trailer as the hum of the carnival was dying down for the night. The next thing he knew, he’d climbed the steps and was lingering in the doorway. Samuel smiled and finished pushing the chair back in at the kitchen table but his eyes remained on Sylar.

“You won’t lie to me, will you?” Samuel asked, curious, and closed the door behind him. It was definitely nice to be needed.

Sylar’s gaze drifted to the open blinds of the trailer and then towards the bedroom. “Unfortunately, these days I don’t have much reaso—” and Samuel was right there, kissing his jaw, pushing him against the door, unforgiving and rough, like the sandstorm that’d worn him down. Samuel tugged at Sylar’s shirt until he removed it and set his hands squarely on his shoulders.

Sylar pushed back, guiding him to the bedroom, less lip and all hands now; smoothing out some of the wrinkles in Samuel’s overcoat, thinking how easy it’d be to apply enough force to the threads and rip the material to shreds. But instead he wrapped his fingers around the suspenders until Samuel shrugged them off and pulled Sylar’s waist to his own.

Sylar pressed him to the bed and Samuel and grunted when he rubbed against him, trying to remember the last time he’s done this prior to Lydia’s long hair had dangling over his chest, clenching him so tightly on the inside that he thought he’d melt into the pillows. He had nothing but instinct to go on right now. Sylar leaned in and fervently kissed Samuel’s jaw, fingers curling around the base of his neck, thumbing the collar of his shirt with the same kind of urgency as his hips. Samuel laughed clasped Sylar’s head as he arched into him and pulled him down for an open-mouthed kiss that was nothing like the trailblazing kisses from before. Sylar so was stunned by the sensation of need emanating from Samuel that he slid his hands from Samuel’s neck to the carotid, fingers pressed deep, like he was feeling him for the first time. Samuel, to his credit, didn’t fight back and his eyes never wavered from his. Sylar sat up, loosening his grip and traced a line across Samuel’s neck, not breaking the skin, not like he did with Nathan who slumped into the chair and bled out right in front of him. That memory was marinated in amusement, and no emotion could have felt farther from his mind. Samuel inhaled deeply, pushed Sylar away and discarded his own shirt. Sylar got up, removed his jeans and unbuttoned Samuel’s pants, tugging them until they lay in a heap with his own.

Sylar stood there, stroking himself and Samuel’s laugh was shallow and unrepentant. He sat up long enough to grab Sylar by the hips and brought him back down. Sylar kissed his chest and stomach while his hand tightened around Samuel’s erection.

“Sylar,” Samuel said, the syllables pulled tight in his throat and Sylar used his other hand to thumb Samuel’s entrance.

“Hmm?” he drawled.

“The bathroom. Small drawer underneath the light switch,” Samuel breathed and Sylar pressed his finger deeper and Samuel fidgeted, fisting nearby pillow. Sylar bent and licked Samuel’s erection and padded off to the bathroom that was more the size of a small closet. In the first drawer Sylar found several hand-made bars of soap that he pushed aside, unwittingly feeling Lydia and her daughter’s handiwork. The bars of honeysuckle and cinnamon were full of pride, self-sufficiency and love. He closed the drawer and rinsed his hand and dug into the next drawer, finding more smaller bars of soap, a bottle of nail polish, the box of condoms and a small label-less bottle of lotion that told him it was also home-made.

He returned with the condoms and lotion, tossing the bottle on the bed.

“Tell me, Sylar,” Samuel said, stroking himself lazily as Sylar opened the box. “Have you ever done this before?”

Sylar tilted his head, considering, and was silent as he put the condom on and began to lubricate himself.

He reached between Samuel’s legs, pushing his index finger in to the knuckle, cupping Samuel’s thigh with his other hand. “I’ve seen the future more times than you can even imagine,” Sylar said and Samuel’s smirk melted into that of pain once he added a second finger.

Samuel hooked a leg around Sylar’s waist and pulled him forward as he clenched around Sylar’s fingers, making Sylar ache on the inside. “Why don’t you share?” he asked, as if it were a dare instead of a favor. Sylar hated himself only a little for recognizing the words meant and not caring at the same time because what he really heard was that Samuel needed him.

Sylar removed his fingers and pushed Samuel’s legs from his hips and coaxed the man back onto his hands and knees, coating Samuel’s entrance with the lotion. He pushed himself inside and began thrusting and the prophetic undertones were there, but he couldn’t read them as well as he thought he would. It wasn’t as easy as the concrete images that came to him and he was on autopilot, painting smeary colors on canvas. No, he had to work with Samuel’s body, pulling him onto his lap, allowing him a limited range of movement while Sylar tugged at Samuel’s balls and tightened his grip around his erection.

Samuel leaned forward onto his hands and knees again and Sylar groaned, managing to slow his thrusts to a minimum. Head bent, nose at Samuel’s shoulder, he inhaled deeply and wondered if he could permanently embed the scent of sweat in his nostrils. Samuel turned head, making brief eye contact and Sylar pulled out, rolling Samuel onto his back and took him into his mouth, hands constantly moving along Samuel’s. The public hair weren’t blades of grass, trampled by the assembled carnival and Samuel’s pleasant murmuring wasn’t the chatter of the crowd. The New York skyline never felt so dwarfed by the amount of power that was centered in the park, and Sylar pursed his lips, the easy up and down movement becoming automatic and enjoyable in it’s own way, his own body aching for more. Bringing Samuel to the edge and then pushing him off—now that was power.

Sylar paused to catch his breath, and traced vein on the underside of the erection and Samuel began to come, first on Sylar’s chin but he opened his mouth again, sucking down the rest and smearing the leftovers from his lips onto Samuel’s tattoo, pinching the skin tight between thumb and forefinger and Samuel chuckled, writhing into the sheets.

He pulled Samuel to the edge of the bed, his erection painful at this point and entered, his rocking hips still going at a languorous pace. Samuel drew his knee upward and Sylar used it to brace himself as he looked across the park, standing in the midst of the carnival beside his brother—wait, _not_ his brother—and that wasn’t his daughter plummeting from the Ferris wheel, her body crumpled in a heap before she bounced back to her feet. Samuel groaned and Sylar’s toppled into his orgasm and Samuel’s feet suddenly locked behind his hips and pulled him forward insistently to pound all the way through.

Sylar pulled out and leaned over Samuel, holding himself upright with his elbows. He was raw, but that didn’t prevent him from grinding against him for another moment. He coiled his fingers into Samuel’s hair and hovered, looking deep into his eyes that were fierce, but nowhere near the level of animosity he was going to feel soon enough. Sylar traced his jaw line, thumbed his chin and lips, almost feeling sorry for him.

He kissed Samuel, slow and deliberate, coaxing his mouth open and Sylar slid his arm beneath Samuel’s neck and pulled him closer. Samuel was every bit receiving, arms wrapping around Sylar’s waist, fighting for more lip service than Sylar was going to provide. He kissed Samuel’s neck and bit his collarbone and suppressed a quiet laugh as he drew away. He traced the semen-stained tattoo with his nail. “You’re not the lion tamer you think you are,” Sylar said.

Sylar finally sat back and disposed of the condom. Samuel grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back to the bed, holding his arm, still quaintly possessive like he was trying to prove Sylar wrong, but fulfillment and camaraderie was equally present in his reaching.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samuel asked, loose and sated but the post-coital glow had taken on a dark tinge of expectation.

Sylar mirrored Samuel, rolling onto his elbow, propping his head up in his hand and took part of the rumpled sheet and wiped his clammy stomach. “Things are going to get worse in a way you’re not going to expect because you don’t know how to admit failure,” Sylar said and when Samuel’s grip tightened on his arm, but he wasn’t afraid of Samuel’s ire; the man didn’t have the ability to kill this messenger.

“It means there’s an exodus coming and I don’t think it’s possible for you to stop it,” he said and quirked his eyebrow at Samuel’s hardening expression.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“As sure as this ability can be,” Sylar said and pointedly looked at Samuel’s hand and back to him. Samuel released his grip and sat up.

“This changes everything,” Samuel said. Which was the point that Sylar—and the ink—had tried to make, but Samuel was putting his pants on. “I won’t let my work unravel, not now,” he said. He tucked in his shirt and the suspenders were up and over his shoulders. “What else did you see?”

“Peter Petrelli likes to spoil everybody’s plans,” Sylar said and shrugged, failing to mention his recent…non-aggression pact with Peter. Samuel put a on hold on the scowl crawling onto his features and grabbed Sylar’s hands, holding them tight, a gesture that surprised him.

“Thank you,” Samuel said. “I know what I need to do now,” he said. His eyes flicked to the messy bed and back to Sylar. “Feel free to make yourself at home,” he said, motioning at the bed and the bathroom. Samuel patted the side of his cheek, hand sliding to cup his neck and Sylar waved him off. Samuel turned and left him alone in the trailer.

He got up, meandered back to the bathroom and showered. After he was done, he rubbed the steamed up mirror with a hand, pushing the hair out from his eyes and toweled the rest of himself dry, the ache in his lower extremities long faded. Sylar had gone further than any magic 8 ball and it was deeper, more authentic, than the precognitive abilities he once wielded with the paintbrush. He rubbed his lips and dropped the towel on the floor, leaning on the small counter, staring at the extra bars of soap from the drawer he didn’t bother closing. Sylar ran his fingers across the textured surfaces again until his finger glossed the cylindrical top of the nail polish that’d become wedged between the bars. He tugged the bottle free, rolling it into the palm and stared at it until he felt his own reflection nagging at him. He rubbed at the condensation again, a futile attempt to wipe away the sullenness growing in his stomach and he twisted the bottle open and painted his thumbnail and held it up to inspect.

He did a second and third nail and when he looked at himself in the mirror there was something in his eyes that brought upon another sense of déjà vu. He was used to grooming himself, physically and mentally settling into a Zen place before he would face the world as whomever he wanted. It was comfortable, routine but Sylar looked to his feet—at the inked symbols—he still wasn’t sure if it felt right even as he on his nails to dry the polish. He could be human or a hero, powerless or seek redemption.

Sylar held his head still enough to paint a line of back over the reflection of his eyes in the mirror and laughed. He ran his hand under the faucet, washing the black from his fingertips and went to retrieve his clothes, sliding the socks back on, pulling denim cuffs down and standing at the threshold of the trailer, he inched the bottle of polish into his pocket.  



End file.
